Far Views of Kabutoyama

by Peter Robinson

‘. . . and if I had filled the picture with things
where would the bird have been able to fly?’

Warrior–helmet–mountain at a distance,
on weekends, public holidays,
see how they traipse up from the station
in bright–coloured hiking gear —

animist spirits, a pilgrim band
with bentos, back–packs, sticks, sun–visors,
starting out from here . . .

*

Just as that mad–about–painting hand
made artefacts in ripened age
to teach us how the floating world
moves beyond its image edge,

Hokusai kept changing his name
and even tipped–up fishing craft,
they probably survived their Great Wave
remaining in its frame.

*

Those people being born at sixty,
reborn ascending, no, not frozen
on a slatted wooden bridge,
umbrellas hurried under slanting rain,

they’re animated, in good weather,
like animé survivors
being born again.

*

Still the way those antique hikers climb
towards Kabutoyama’s temple
following that torrent river —

not tied to a memory, without nostalgia,
pasts completed, gone forever,
I’d watch them stride in admiration

on slopes of Warrior–helmet–mountain,
would see them traipse up from the station
meaning to start over.